Royal Wedding - Meg Cabot Page 0,115

But there’s no taco or nacho bar. We are, however, having lobster mac and cheese later this evening) in the royal gardens below.

“You can’t tell by that racket?” he said. “They’re having a terrible time. Just awful. The ceremony was a disaster.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I said. “I’ve been watching it.” I held up the remote. “It’s recorded. They showed it on CNN. Do you want to see?”

He groaned. “No. Why would I want to see my enormous head on CNN?”

“Your head isn’t enormous. Lana’s husband’s head is enormous.”

Michael’s eyes widened. “I know! Have you seen that guy? What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know, but if our babies have heads that big, I’m getting a C-section for sure. I totally understand now what Lana was talking about when she was telling me why she got one.”

“That is cold,” Michael said. “What else do girls talk about, besides their husbands’ enormous heads? Wow, I just heard that come out of my mouth, and it sounded way dirtier than I meant it to.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I do know I’m starting to feel infantilized. When am I going to be allowed to bust out of here and rejoin the party?”

“What did the doctor say?”

“The doctor said two hours. Tina said the doctor was being reactionary.”

“Oh, and Tina has her medical degree, so we should definitely listen to her.”

“Well, I think Tina is feeling a bit better than she has in a while.”

“Yes, I think you could say that,” Michael agreed with a grin, but he was too much of a gentleman to add, I told you so.

Tina was not the only one who’d been surprised to discover Boris P. was the “top-notch live entertainment” Grandmère had lined up for the reception instead of the DJ Michael and I had requested.

I was a little miffed at first. Was I to get nothing I wanted at my wedding?

Well, except a groom who’s the man of my dreams, of course. And my parents, happily together for the first time in my memory. And a new little sister, and all of my best friends showing up, as well as what’s turned out to be a truly gorgeous gown, Sebastiano having de-emphasized my belly by raising the waistline a little, and adding diamond Ms—for Michael and Mia—instead of bows as the “pickups” Lilly had suggested. They not only “pick up” the full tulle skirt, they pick up the light and glitter outrageously!

But even Boris being here has turned out all right, because he’s agreed to sing every single song on Michael’s playlist, and also—quite dramatically, at last night’s rehearsal dinner in the grand reception hall, no less—showed Tina that the photos of him and that blogger were, indeed, Photoshopped, as he had insisted all along.

“Look, they’re of you and me,” he insisted (which, if she’d ever bothered to look at them, like Lilly and I had encouraged her to do, she’d have known). “Remember the ones we took that weekend in Asheville? She cut and pasted copies of her own head over yours. I don’t know how she got hold of them. Hacked my phone, I guess. You always told me I needed a better password than the one I use . . . Tina.” He blushed. “I guess it wasn’t that hard for her to figure out.”

This, of course, mortified Tina—she didn’t want any of us knowing she and Boris had nude photos of each other.

But I thought it was sweet . . . and it also allowed me to be able to sagely point out, “Let he—or she—who does not have a set of nude photos cast the first stone.”

(This did not amuse Grandmère, however, especially since I said it in front of the pope. But I think it must have amused him, since it’s currently one of the top quotes on social media, I noticed a while ago.)

“Maybe the next wedding we go to,” I said, reaching up to adjust Michael’s pale gray tie, “will be Tina’s to Boris.”

He considered this. “Maybe . . . I think it’s more likely to be your dad’s to your mom.”

“Another royal wedding?” I tried to raise my arms over my head in a dramatic gesture to show my frustration, but doing so caused the bodice of my wedding gown to slip, exposing more of my cleavage than I intended.

That’s when Michael stood up and began removing his jacket.

“Excuse me,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Making myself more comfortable,” he replied. “Aren’t I supposed to wear something different tonight, anyway?”

“Yes. A tux. But that’s in like four hours.”

“This isn’t a tux?”

“No. It’s a morning suit.”

He shook his head. “I’m never going to get used to this royal thing. So many rules. Too many . . . that’s what your sister says.”

“When did she say that?”

“Earlier, when your grandmother told her to be less liberal in her throwing of the flower petals from her basket.”

I groaned some more. “She wasn’t even supposed to be a flower girl! She’s too old. She was supposed to be a bridesmaid.”

“It doesn’t matter. I think she was really happy today,” he said, draping his jacket over the back of a chair. “She told me just now that she loves her new school. She’s taking art lessons.”

“Well, that’s good.”

I’m the only one who isn’t wild about the Royal Academy, and that’s because Madame Alain, from the consulate, is the headmistress, which is totally my own fault. I’m the one who asked for her to be transferred back to Genovia.

How was I supposed to know it was going to be as headmistress of the school my long-lost little sister was going to be attending?

Now I still have to see Madame Alain all the time, like whenever Olivia has a school concert or horse-riding competition.

But whatever. Olivia’s happy, and that’s what matters.

Michael began stripping off his tie, and then his shirt.

“Michael,” I said curiously, leaning up on my elbows. “What are you doing?”

“Joining you.” Once he was down to his boxer briefs, he bounded onto the bed beside me, greatly disturbing Fat Louie, who gave him an offended stare and retreated to the opposite side of the mattress. “If you have to rest, so will I.”

“But, Michael—you’ll miss the party.”

“No, I won’t,” he said, lifting my left hand and kissing the new ring on my wedding finger—this one having once graced the finger of my royal ancestress Princess Mathilda. “The actual reception doesn’t start for four hours. You just told me that. And the only real party is wherever you are, anyway.”

“Aw, Michael,” I said, my eyes filling with tears at his sweetness.

But then of course nearly everything makes me cry these days, even commercials for Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches, and of course when all those sweet little Qalifi children held that tea party for me on the deck of their cruise ship, to say thank you for finding their families a home (even if it’s only a temporary one, until we can locate housing for them on dry land) and also to wish me luck as both a bride and the new reigning monarch of Genovia.

Even Paolo made me cry earlier, when he did my hair before the wedding, and leaned down to ask, “So how those diamond shoes fitting today? Still too tight?”

I’d lifted my skirt to show him. “Swarovski crystals,” I said, smiling. “But they’re feeling pretty good, thanks for asking.”

Michael dropped his lips to my shoulder, which happened to be bare, as the bodice of my dress kept dipping lower and lower every time I gestured, which I happen to do a lot.

“Isn’t there some royal rule that the bride and groom have to show proof that they’ve consummated the marriage?”

“Michael,” I said, my voice slightly muffled, as he’d lowered his lips to my mouth. “That’s not necessary. First of all, it’s the twenty-first century. And second of all, I’m already pregnant.”

“Oh.” He looked down at me, his adorable dark eyebrows furrowed with disappointment. “Well, I think we should do it anyway, just to be on the safe side.”

“Oh, you do?”

“Yes, I do.”

I grinned at him. “Who do you think you are, anyway, bossing me around like that, a prince, or something?”

“Why, yes, Mrs. Moscovitz,” he said, and kissed me. “I do.”